


A poet and a one-man band

by Builder



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Helpful Sam Wilson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post CA:TWS, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 14:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “Alright,” Sam says matter-of-factly, reappearing to clap Steve on the arm with what’s probably supposed to be a grounding touch.  “Sorry if I spooked you.  He’s gonna lie down.  You wanna talk?”“Yeah.”  Steve sits up straighter.  “What’s wrong with him?”  He shakes his head at his choice of words.  “I mean, why’s he sick?  What…?”“Well, you probably need a doctor to know for sure-for sure.”  Sam smiles sadly.  “But… You know about depression, right?  Anxiety?  Stress?”“Yeah,” Steve says again, slowly and stupidly.  “I mean, I haven’t discussed them in detail, but I’ve read pamphlets.”“Geez, sometimes I think SHIELD is worse than a high school guidance counselor.”  Sam laughs.  “Long story short, they wreck a person.  Badly.”





	A poet and a one-man band

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @builder051
> 
> If you follow my other works, this fic fits pretty neatly into Heroverse, Powers/No Powers, and the post-CA:TWS fanon in which Bucky comes back to Steve and things are Not Good. If not, this is a fic I wrote. Please enjoy.

Steve wakes when he feels Bucky move.  He always does.  He supposes he always has, even in the years before the war.  It was something of a defense mechanism back then, an instinct gone awry.  Instead of sleeping deeply and recharging his frail body, the slightest sound or shift of the mattress would send him sitting bolt upright with his heart hammering in a way that certainly wasn’t healthy.  But his mind was shockingly clear.  Did he need to fight?  Or flee?  Or drag Bucky away from a gun-toting burglar in a black mask?  The adrenaline pumping through his delicate veins made him feel like he could do all of it and then some.  

Steve never had to do any of it.  He’d escorted a green-faced drunken Bucky to the bathroom a few times and firmly insisted he stay put while Steve cleaned vomit out of the bed sheets.  But even then Bucky had stumbled chivalrously, reaching out to the walls of the narrow hallway to avoid putting too much weight on Steve’s skinny arm.  

Nowadays Bucky wakes in the night for very different reasons.  He hardly ever gets up to piss.  He hardly drinks water to begin with.  Sometimes he crashes into Steve, panting and coughing and struggling to breathe.  Sometimes he flails.  Sometimes he rolls to the edge of the mattress and cries.  

The first time each situation arose, Steve overreacted.  “What’s wrong?  What do you need?  What can I do?” he’d asked, grabbing Bucky’s shoulders and hugging him.  Holding him.  Then eventually letting go when it became clear he didn’t have the magic touch Bucky needed.  The loving whispers just made it worse, though it was hard to interpret the subtle shades of sniffle and grunt.

This time when Bucky moves, he curls carelessly, his head sliding off the pillow toward his knees, which peek out from the warm tent of the quilt.  He groans as he forms a ball, and his bony ass clips Steve’s hip.  It’s not the kind of loving brush that should happen beneath the covers, and not nap jerk either.  It’s not the movement of someone who’s asleep and dreaming.  Just the movement of someone who’s unaware.  

“Hey.”  Steve reaches for Bucky’s lower back, pretending he can’t feel the hard ridges of bone along his lumbar spine.  “You ok?”

“Hmph.”  Bucky sits up and pushes the quilt away.  At first Steve thinks he’s bristling, but the shiver doesn’t stop.  The hem of his t-shirt vibrates in a blur of a quiver.  Bucky stands, letting in a gust of winter air that makes Steve’s nipples go hard.  Steve burrows into the blankets and crosses his arms, squeezing his biceps in calloused hands.  Bucky probably doesn’t need him right now, but it makes no difference.  Cold, arousal, weakness… Steve still isn’t allowed to feel.  

There’s silence until liquid hits water with a disgusting splash.  Steve wonders if he’s hearing correctly; fluid in the eustachian tubes does funny things to acoustics, and they haven’t lived here that long.  Something might be wrong with the plumbing…

But who’s he kidding?  Steve doesn’t get sick anymore.  There’s no need to second guess himself.  But Bucky doesn’t get sick either, at least not to his knowledge.

“Buck?  You alright?” Steve calls as he leaps out of bed in a bent-kneed attack stance and jogs the 15 feet into the ensuite.  He isn’t sure what kind of offensive he’s going to launch against an attack of vomiting, but he’s prepared at least.

“Hm.  Yeah.”  Bucky coughs and tears off a length of toilet paper, but drops it when he starts gagging again.  

“No, you’re not.”  Steve starts to kneel beside him, but Bucky puts up his hand.  

He spits.  “Yeah,” he repeats, failing to find the toilet paper and wiping his mouth on his sleeve instead.  “’M fine.  ’M done.”

Steve sighs and bites his lip.  “Ok.”  He pats Bucky’s shoulder, but retracts the touch when he flinches.  “Alright.”  He rocks back on his heels and creeps toward the bedroom until he hears the toilet flush and feels Bucky, cat-like and shadowy behind him.

They lie down a foot apart, and the next thing Steve knows, morning sun is streaming in and the bell on his alarm clock is ringing shrilly.  Bucky’s pale, but his head rests in the crevice between their pillows like usual, so Steve assumes that’s that.  It was a one-off.  Some bad bite of chicken or rotten nightmare that may or may not warrant retelling.  He won’t push Bucky to talk, Steve promises himself.  He won’t be that guy.

He lasts 20 minutes.  Steve suspects it would’ve been longer if Bucky hadn’t suddenly slumped over his elbow and dry heaved onto the floor.

“Whoa, alright,” Steve says, leaving the orange juice on the counter and rushing to Bucky’s side.

A rough belch explodes from Bucky’s throat along with a few drips of saliva.  Steve waits for him to speak or cough or cry, even.  But he doesn’t.  He just gulps and breathes shallowly.  

“You must be feeling pretty sick.”  Steve pushes a strand of sweaty hair back from Bucky’s forehead.  He touches his skin gently with the backs of his knuckles.  He isn’t warm, but he seems to be tender.  Bucky blinks hard in the way that means pain.  

Steve wishes he’d say something.  Anything would be reassuring; yeah, or a faked I’m fine, or even fuck you.  “What do you want to do?” Steve whispers, trailing his thumb down the line of stubble connecting Bucky’s bangs to his cheek to his moustache.  “Bathroom?  Bed?  Or water?  Or…?”  He trails off, feeling his brows knit as he tries to pick apart the blank look in Bucky’s eyes.

Steve winds up putting him in the car.  He knows as well as anyone that it’s a disaster waiting to happen, but he can’t take the empty, silent stare.  Bucky’s in pain, and sitting at the breakfast table and watching him go grey at the sight of steam coming off a cup of peppermint tea is as good as torture for Steve.  

They stop four blocks from the house for Bucky to throw up again.  Nothing, again.  “Aw, Buck.”  Steve pats him softly between the shoulder blades until he stops gagging, then walks back around to the driver’s seat.  He looks at Bucky’s hands resting at a quiver on his knees and holds one as he navigates the neighborhood at a crawl.  

It’s possible to get to Sam at home without nosing out onto any major roads.  Steve’s grateful for it; he’d hate to toss Bucky into the realm of stoplights and honking horns that make up the route to the VA.  Steve just hopes it’s early enough that their friend is still at home.  

He pulls into the driveway behind Sam’s burgundy Corolla, effectively parking him in.  It shores up the help, too, but Steve doesn’t like to think that way.  He doesn’t like not knowing what to do with Bucky, how to help Bucky.  Because after all they’ve been through, he should.  He should know better than anyone.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says to Sam instead of hello.  “He keeps throwing up, but no fever, and we didn’t eat anything weird.”

“Ok, um…”  Sam drops his work bag and travel mug on the kitchen table and leads Bucky to the sink before the retch written on his face can turn material.  Steve follows with a kitchen chair because he doesn’t trust Bucky’s ability to stay on his feet.  

“Ok, ok,” Sam murmurs, leaning with Bucky over the basin and looking perfectly at home like a PJ in the field.  Steve feels useless, standing alone in a kitchen that isn’t his.

“You wanna just give us a minute?” Sam asks over his shoulder.

Steve wants to say no, but that would defeat the purpose of coming to begin with.  He trudges to the living room and watches Good Morning America while he alphabetizes the magazines on the coffee table.

Quiet murmurings come from the next room for a while, then footsteps.  Steve looks up quickly, but he barely glimpses what looks like a three-legged shadow stuttering down the hallway.

“Alright,” Sam says matter-of-factly, reappearing to clap Steve on the arm with what’s probably supposed to be a grounding touch.  “Sorry if I spooked you.  He’s gonna lie down.  You wanna talk?”

“Yeah.”  Steve sits up straighter.  “What’s wrong with him?”  He shakes his head at his choice of words.  “I mean, why’s he sick?  What…?”

“Well, you probably need a doctor to know for sure-for sure.”  Sam smiles sadly.  “But… You know about depression, right?  Anxiety?  Stress?”

“Yeah,” Steve says again, slowly and stupidly.  “I mean, I haven’t discussed them in detail, but I’ve read pamphlets.”

“Geez, sometimes I think SHIELD is worse than a high school guidance counselor.”  Sam laughs.  “Long story short, they wreck a person.  Badly.”

“He’s just sad?”  Steve’s heart drops down to his stomach.  “Or… Overwhelmed?”  His brain takes off again, wondering how in the world he missed this, how Bucky could be so hurt and not show it, not ask for help.

“It’s not that simple,” Sam says.  “But if it helps you process it to think of it that way, well, yeah, kinda.  It’s not regular sad, not civilian sad.  You saw bad shit in combat, right?  Saw people die?”

Steve nods.  He saw Bucky die.  He wanted to mourn him, but never had time before something came up, then another thing, and another thing, and then Bucky was back.  

“It makes some guys get angry.  Some have survivor’s guilt.”  Sam shrugs.  “Some guys need to hit things when it gets bad.  Some get sick to their stomachs.”

It makes sense.  The worst kind of sense, the horrible oversimplified kind that means he understood it the whole time, his view was just skewed.  Like the easy math problems he’d miss on tests at school because he looked out the window at the wrong time.  Steve feels guilty all over again, thinking back frantically to find where he turned his view away from Bucky and why and how he can put it back.

“I…” he says slowly.  “Is he gonna be ok?”

“Yeah,” Sam says.  “Soon.”  He gets to his feet.  “Want some coffee?”

Steve looks up at him.  “Aren’t you going to work?”

“Nah,” Sam replies.  “You’re looking after your boy.  Somebody’s gotta look after you.”

Steve can’t help but chuckle.  “Thanks,” he says.  “I appreciate it.”


End file.
